


love or salvation

by orphan_account



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Acephobia, Alternate Universe - Fight Club Fusion, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Asexual Character, Internalized Acephobia, M/M, Multi, Other, Sex-Repulsed Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 08:06:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1597673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of >1000 word drabbles  on the theme of soulmates</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Burnie/Joel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nbmothman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nbmothman/gifts).



> [this](http://krumcake.tumblr.com/post/84983728019/honestly-im-really-only-interested-in-soulmate)

Joel finds Burnie staring at his wrist, sometimes. 

It’s usually on the days where the world seems to be trying to grind him down to nothing. Joel knows the signs, the tightness in Burnie’s shoulders, the twitch in his fingers, the squint as his headache gets worse. Joel’s got them memorized and wishes he didn’t. It happens more often than Joel likes but it’s not like he can do anything to stop the world from sucking. 

All he can do is be there to help pick up the pieces. 

“Hey.” He whispers, putting a hand on Burnie’s shoulder. Burnie jumps and hides his wrist guiltily. It’s almost enough to make Joel’s mouth quirk into a meager smile. 

“Fuck. I’m sorry.” Burnie huffs and tucks his left hand into his lap and out of Joel’s line of sight. Joel does smile now, sideways and a little strange, but there. 

“I’ve told you a million goddamn times, Burns, it doesn’t bother me.” He lies. It’s a white lie. It does bother him, he can’t honestly say he isn’t scared because he is. He’s terrified. He’s so scared that it’s a hum in his bones, utter petrification at the thought that Burnie will leave him. 

The name on Burnie’s wrist, the name of his soulmate, the name of the person meant for him. 

It isn’t Joel. It’s Jordan. 

“It doesn’t bother me.” He repeats, his voice stronger this time. Burnie looks at him for a long moment and Joel thinks he sees his fear mirrored back at him but he sees love too, so much love and it doesn’t matter to him that the name on Burnie’s wrist isn’t Joel and the name on Joel’s isn’t Burnie.


	2. michael/gavin/lindsay

When Ray tells him about the club, Michael’s skeptical. Ray grins at him with chipped teeth and something alien and fierce behind his eyes and tells him to give it a try at least. 

“No one cares what’s on your wrists.” He says when that doesn’t convince Michael. It’s a low blow, and Michael clutches his left wrist convulsively with his right hand. When he meets Ray’s eyes again they’re triumphant and Michael almost swings but there’s something more. Sympathy. 

He decides it’s worth a try.

* * *

The warehouse is chilly and dark and smells of sweat and old metallic blood. Grit crunches under Michael’s feet when he shifts. There’s something under his ribs, nudging up against his heart, that’s beating a harsh rhythm and electrifying his blood. The crowd is quiet but something is whispering to his animal instinct that they’re a match away from a mob and Michael for once doesn’t feel guarded and anxious. 

“Alright, bitches!” 

A man climbs up on a pile of packing crates and shoves his hands into his pockets. His arms are tattooed and his eyes are lazy and dead and unsmiling. He’s got a black eye. 

“The first rule of Fight Club is you do not talk about Fight Club. The second rule of Fight Club is you _do not_ talk about Fight Club!” He pauses and quirks half a grin when the crowd rumbles a subdued laugh. It’s got the air of rote memorization to it and it occurs to Michael to wonder if there are more of these quiet, dark crowds, more cavernous rooms with old blood on the floor, more dead-eyed men preaching from precarious stacks of packing crates. 

“Third rule of Fight Club: someone yells ‘stop’, goes limp, taps out, the fight is over. Fourth rule: only two guys to a fight. Fifth rule: one fight at a time, assholes. Sixth rule: No shirts, no shoes. Seventh rule: fights will go on as long as they have to.” He pauses again, this time for dramatic effect, and sweeps his eyes over the crowd. Michael _feels_ it when they land on him, and the half grin stretches into something like a real smile. 

“And the eighth and final rule: if this is your first time at Fight Club, you have to fight. Step right up, Curls.” 

Michael’s feet are numb but he steps forward anyway, feeling the beating thing in his chest reach for his throat. 

“My name’s Michael.” He says when he’s at the bottom of the stack of crates. The man smiles down at him beatifically and shrugs. 

“No one here gives a shit.” He says kindly. “Shirt and shoes off, dickhead.” 

The air is cuttingly cold and the floor is rough and Michael is suddenly glad no one here knows his name because he feels more naked than he’s ever felt in his life. His wrists tingle with exposure but no one’s even glanced at them and it’s so foreign and so welcome to him. 

“Anyone feel like volunteering for Curls’ first fight?” the man above him demanded of the crowd. Michael stares them down and feels his face settle into a grin. It feels right. 

“Oi.” 

Someone shoves to the front of the crowd and waves desultorily. The man above him guffaws and jumps to the floor. 

“Right, Curls and the Brit then. Play nice, assholes!” 

The crowd rumbles again and spreads out in a ring around Michael and his opponent. 

The Brit is pretty, in a fine-boned way. If it weren’t for the bare, furry chest Michael would think he was supposed to fight a girl. He’s got a massive fucking nose and it looks like it’s been broken before and when he smiles he’s absolutely terrifyingly beautiful. 

It’s only when the Brit’s fist is flying at his face that he registers that the man has moved at all. Michael’s face explodes in pain and then the thing in his chest, the black ugly thing that he’s lived with his entire life, explodes up his throat and he’s gone.

* * *

Michael blinks through the blood in his eyes and grins back at the Brit. There’s a cut on his eyebrow dripping blood into his eyes and the Brit’s nose is probably broken again, it’s gushing blood over his mouth and shirt. When he smiles there’s blood in his teeth and shiny on his lips. 

Michael feels more peaceful than he ever has in his life, feels brutal and powerful in a way that settles into his bones in an addiction. He’s wet with sweat and blood and tingling in his skin. 

“Michael.” Michael introduces himself impulsively, even though he knows he’s not supposed to. Somehow he knows that this man cares even if the rest don’t. 

“Gavin.” The Brit replies and Michael freezes, doesn’t grab for his wrist even though he wants to. “Gavin Free.” 

Michael smiles mindlessly, meaninglessly, and walks away with nothing in his bones anymore. 

That night he doesn’t look at his wrists once but he knows them by heart. 

_Gavin Free_ , reads his left, but his right says _Lindsay Tuggey_.


	3. miles/chris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a lot of acephobia going on in this chapter so i'd just like to add the disclaimer that chris's internalized issues don't reflect my views and are also really unhealthy and damaging. please don't take this as condoning acephobia in any capacity.

Chris Demarais is _not_ broken. 

There’s nothing wrong with him, he knows that. He hears it all the time, that he just hasn’t found his soulmate. He believes it, even. 

He believes it even when he shoves a girl away mid-handjob and has to stumble into the bathroom to puke because the sense of wrongness and discomfort is sending roiling stabs through his gut. He’s not broken, he just hasn’t found the right person, hasn’t met the man with Chris’s name on his wrist yet. 

_Miles Luna_. 

He’ll fix everything, even though Chris _is not broken_. 

He’s not broken even though sometimes, when he’s alone and his bedroom is dark and the quiet is almost an entity, he feels a little shattered.

* * *

Miles is just as perfect as Chris knew he would be. When he smiles Chris gets tingles in his stomach, the butterflies he always thought were figures of speech. Chris feels a little too big for his skin, awkward and too-formal in a way that makes him think vaguely of pink rom-coms. Miles has the best smile, wide and fearless and a little bit crazy. 

He thinks _fixed_ and almost cries with relief and follows Miles home with a shy nod when he asks because he’s fixed – he was never broken – and he can do this.

* * *

Miles brushes gentle fingertips through his hair as he gags into the toilet and makes soothing noises but Chris can’t hear him through the buzzing in his ears. 

He had been _fixed_. 

He’s crying so hard that he doesn’t think Miles can actually understand him, and his face is disgusting with snot and tears and he must smell like shit and his pants are still undone but Miles gathers him up anyway and holds him until he’s calmed down. Chris swears he can feel his ribs creak with love but that just makes him feel worse because this is definitive proof, isn’t it?

He _is_ broken, must be if he can’t even handle Miles’ hands on him. 

“I’m sorry.” He croaks when he can finally talk. Miles makes a bewildered noise and shifts to look him in the eye. 

“What are _you_ sorry for?” he demands, and when Chris actually looks at him he can tell that Miles is shaken, guilt obvious on his face. “Obviously I tried to get you to do something you weren’t ready for, though I’ve never gotten a reaction like that before, Christ.” 

Chris takes a breath that shudders down to his toes and grins weakly. 

“I thought I was over that. With you.” He swallows against another wave of nausea. “I um. I’ll learn better. I hope. Sorry.” 

He’s looking at his hands now, putting all of his effort into maintaining his fake smile, and so nearly misses the noise that Mile’s makes. It sounds like someone punched him in the gut and it’s surprising enough to make Chris look up. 

Miles is looking greener than Chris had, mouth pinched and eyes panicked and sad. 

“Chris.” Is all he can say, voice strangled, and then he just opens and closes his mouth. Chris blinks at him in honest confusion because he doesn’t really understand that. _He’s_ the broken one, Miles is the one that’s perfectly normal. 

The one with a defective soulmate. 

“What?” he asks, honestly a little scared now. He’s willing to try if Miles still wants him after nearly getting puked on and so can’t really imagine what Miles could be upset about now. 

“Chris I’m not going to make you learn to like sex, Jesus fucking Christ!” Miles explodes, and Chris falls back instinctually. Miles follows him, leaning over him and gripping him by the shoulders, shaking him. 

“I-,” Chris begins, but Miles cuts him off. 

“Do you even _want_ to?” Miles demands. 

“Of course I do-,” Chris tries again but he can’t meet Miles’ eyes and Miles’ voice cuts across his like a whipcrack. 

“ _Don’t lie to me._ ” 

He sounds as shattered as Chris feels, raw and pained, and Chris can’t stand that pain being his fault. 

“…no.” he admits quietly and even though it’s everything he’s fought since he can remember it’s a relief to say. 

Miles lets go of his shoulders and sits back, hands resting on his knees, to look at him. His gaze is bewildered and Chris still can’t meet it head-on. 

“I’m sorry you have a broken soulmate.” he says after a moment of painful silence. Mile’s chokes and grabs his hand. 

“Shut the fuck up.” He says fiercely. “You’re not broken and if you talk shit about my soulmate again I’ll fucking _deck_ you.” 

Chris meets his gaze almost accidentally and starts laughing because he can’t think of any other reaction short of puking and, well. He doesn’t have anything left in his stomach. After a second Miles is laughing too and his laugh is perfect, just perfect. 

“We’ll figure this out.” Miles whispers to him protectively when he can breath again. “Sex isn’t everything, you know. We’ll make this work.”

Chris thinks he potentially, maybe, possibly believes him.


End file.
